


Broom Closet

by justakidfromabadan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Closet Sex, M/M, Workplace Sex, soft dumb boys being soft, the literal opposite of a slowburn is this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justakidfromabadan/pseuds/justakidfromabadan
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 10
Kudos: 69





	Broom Closet

It's the first time Q hasn't squirmed away from one of James' overtly suggestive propositions. There's his full name, curled on James' tongue, and Q is undone, his knees nearly submitting to the old bunker floor.

They end up in the broom cupboard of all places, months of tension melting in the heat between them. 

It becomes apparent after a few blistering kisses that James is a man who enjoys taking his time, building up to the finale. Touch is a language in which James is more than fluent while Q knows he, himself, does not even grasp the rudiments of it.

A part of Q knows the logic, the thousand small things he's given away of himself to an international spy who could write a dossier about a person's body language only after spending ten minutes with them. Some of the breadcrumbs were willing. Most were not. 

But none of that knowledge prepares him for the spotlight of James' full attention. None of it prepares him for James' gentle eagerness or his sweltering kisses. None of it prepares him for what it means to be cared for by James' large hands. 

There is only the sound of their heavy breaths mingled with the unambiguous rhythm of skin-to-skin contact. 

Q holds onto the wall in front of him, his fingernails digging into the rough brick texture. James moves against him without any kind of hurry, keeping their hips slotted together. His fingers move along Q's arousal in expert strokes bespoken of a practiced hand. 

And Q unravels, piece by piece, giving more of himself to James with each thrust until he is completely undone. He grips onto James' arm at his hip as he's nudged towards the edge of his climax. When a moan attempts to escape, he detains it by pressing a kiss to the heel of James' hand.

James' assured rhythm stutters, piquing Q's interest. He mouths the same patch of skin again experimentally, and it results in James' smooth cadence to dissolve into a roughened, more vigorous pace.

It's all too much for Q, touch-starved as he is. The muscles of his calves tense before the rest of him, and he knows he can no longer delay propelling forward over the edge. 

James' breathes Q's name, and it's equal parts desperation to permission. 

And it's all Q needs to be undone. 

He suspends in the freefall of his climax before it rushes over him. He claps James' hand to his mouth to stifle his whimpering, and he lets go of all his fears for one long, blissful moment in which only the two of them exist, the darkness pressing against them like a shield. There is only James, and his generous touch, and the peppered kisses on Q’s shoulder blade. 

James is not too far behind after him. 

Q does not expect aftercare kisses. He does not expect James' susurrus reassurances. He certainly does not expect to be cleaned. 

They dress in the damp silence of their lovemaking, and James is the one who breaks it. "Dinner later?"

Q raises a brow. "I thought it was supposed to be dinner and then, you know..."

"Shagging?" James grins. 

Q shakes his curls out of his eyes. "You're a regular poet."

"I'm quite serious about dinner, you know." 

There is a new softness to James as if all his cares were left outside the cupboard door. 

"Takeaway," Q compromises after a long pause. "My place?"

"Takeaway it is."


End file.
